Consequences
by gunsandcigarettesmoke
Summary: "The life we led, that doesn't go away." Rating may change.
1. Beginnings

The orphanage was hardly better than living out in the wilderness but it put a roof over their head and protected them from bandits and kidnappers with its flimsy walls. The people who worked there were missionaries, nuns for the most part, and most people had the decency not to rob those trying to bring sanctuary to the untamed west. For the less morally inclined, the head nun had a shotgun aptly hidden in a cupboard with a cross nailed on it and would not hesitate to kill those who dared to commit any sort of heinous sin in her territory. A tough and fearsome lady she was, John reminisces, but she was a good woman. Sometimes, he thinks that he got his moral code from her.

He doesn't remember much from the good book, but he figures he got the gist of it. He must've fallen asleep when they read the orphans a part of the Ten Commandments, he thinks bemusedly. The "thou shall not kill" part completely flew over his head. It wasn't much of a Sunday school, that orphanage, the nuns understood that. But they tried their best to give the kids a reason for what had been done to them. We are all subject to the will of God, they would tell them before bed, candles illuminating attentive faces. From our actions, He decides whether we are to be damned or whether we are to be given redemption.

But they could never understand what they had done to deserve what they got. They had their own way of coping with this new-found knowledge. Some were full of spite and turned to being troublemakers, more so as they grew older. Some believed God took away their family because of the things they did and they promised not to be bad anymore.

John just figured that life wasn't fair, that there was nothing worth trying to mend past mistakes for.

* * *

He still remembers that day. He was leaning against the doorway of one of the rooms with his arms crossed over his chest, occasionally dozing off with his too large hat-which he found by a rock near the orphanage and, seeing no live or dead bodies nearby, deemed it alright for the taking-covering his face and halfheartedly supervising some of the younger kids as they played around. A fellow orphan, Ben, stood across the hall, doing about the same. A door down the hall creaked open and seconds later, he hit John on the shoulder, jerking him awake.

"Wha-" He began, managing to catch his hat rather ungracefully before it fell off his head.

"Look, John, look."

He peered over his shoulder toward the front door, where two figures stood, silhouettes against the bright sunlight. He rubbed his eyes. "Are they takin' someone in?"

"No, it's a new one."

The door closed, blocking out the light. Then John could see one of the adults that worked at the orphanage and a girl. He took off his hat. Ben let out a low whistle.

The girl had wavy black hair that grew past her shoulders and pale skin burned slightly pink. Her dress was torn and ruined. She was injured, her elbows and knees bleeding and stained orange with the dry desert dirt, cuts all over her. John wondered how she ended up here. Indians or bandits, he thought. Or maybe cannibals, he added, eyeing the bloodstains that were in all the wrong places on her clothes. He couldn't see her face fully; her eyes were downcast with her hands were drawn into tight fists at her sides. But just by judging her by what he could see, he could say with confidence that she was quite pretty.

"I'd go for that." Ben muttered, nudging John.

"She's just a kid." He said with a twinge of annoyance, which surprised even him.

Ben shrugged with a slight grin on his face. "Not forever." He said, glancing briefly at the girl before turning back to his room.

John scuffed the wooden floorboards lightly with his shoe, rubbing the side of his nose with his thumb. "Whatever you say, Ben."

He leaned back against the frame of the door, watching the girl carefully. It was always a big show when orphans came in. Most kids came in crying, wailing for their family until they cried themselves unconscious. The stronger ones came in with red-rimmed eyes and sniffling noses. But she came in with no fanfare. The afternoon was quiet and sleepy when she walked in; hardly anyone noticed. She was given a quiet introduction to the orphanage before her escort, Miss Judith, a well-meaning woman from the east, quickly and abruptly rushed off to tend to her duties. He didn't really blame Miss Judith for leaving the girl alone; there was a cold spreading and the toddlers were quickly falling victim to it. He watched her. She did not fidget or make any sudden movements like some sort of cornered animal, like most kids did. She only looked around the main room tiredly, her body rigid, feet planted on the floor. When he caught her eye, he saw that she had no trace of tears on her face.

He cocked his head. Glancing back to the room, he figured that he wasn't doing much in supervising the kids anyway. He pushed himself off the door frame. Slowly walking up to her, he set his hat on his head, tilting it back to keep it from falling forward.

At 14, he fancied himself a loner. He wasn't awkward; it was quite the opposite. He could easily talk to other people when the situation called for socializing but he simply chose to be detached. He was polite with an air of youthful arrogance, but he never failed to help those who requested it, only to sit back so he could be forgotten. Truth be told, he never intended to seem approachable, nor did he intend to seem otherwise. He had a strange duality to him at the time, as though he wasn't quite sure which side he wanted to choose, what kind of person he wanted to be. Either way, it wasn't like him to be particularly amiable, especially to newcomers, no matter how polite he was; it was simply not his nature.

Stopping three steps in front of her, he carefully tipped his hat to her, hooking his left thumb on his pant pocket.

"Welcome to our orphanage." He gestured at their shabby surroundings. "It don't look like much but it's better than nothin'."

She looked around briefly once more and nodded, offering only silence. He cleared his throat. Up close, he noticed that she was indeed quite pretty.

"You mind tellin' me your name, miss?"

She looked back at him, eyeing him suspiciously. Her eyes were a shade of unremarkable brown but there was intensity to them, a will-o-wisp dancing behind them. He blinked and wondered briefly if he was turning into a poet. She gave him a look-over and apparently decided that he seemed to have no ill intentions. "Abigail." She replied curtly.

He cleared his throat. "Pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Miss..."

"Just," she interrupted, "Abigail." Her eyes dared him to object.

He blinked and bowed his head, hiding a grin. "...Abigail. I'm John. John Marston."

Realizing that he never quite learned how to greet a lady, he shuffled awkwardly. Before he could act, she stretched open her hand and held it out to him. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Marston." She said, looking him straight in the eye. Her voice was delicate yet strong.

Pausing for a moment, he reached out and grasped her hand. She gave him a firm shake and a quiet smile.

He remembers it, the day he saw the sunset in a beautiful girl's eyes.

* * *

A/N: Essentially, this is my take on what happened before Red Dead Redemption, focusing mainly on John and Abigail, since there is very little information about how everything turned out the way it did and the information that I could find was pretty vague. And I like them.

Furthermore, I didn't really exaggerate the whole Western speech because, well, people wouldn't be able to read this and understand what the characters are saying, I don't know much of it anyway, and in the game, they have pretty decent grammar, actually.

Constructive criticism is welcome. If you don't like the pairing, that is not a valid reason why this sucks.

Hope you liked it.


	2. Dreams

A/N: I'm glad that people are actually reading and maybe even liking this story! But please, leave a review! It can be two words long, even.

* * *

John and Abigail did not speak often after their initial meeting. However, they did talk to each other when they happened to bump into each other. He would ask her how she's doing and usually she would answer vaguely with a shrug. She wasn't very outgoing; she didn't make much of an effort to make friends. There were few girls close to her age at the orphanage anyway, and she once mentioned disdainfully during one of their encounters that they were "foolish empty-headed girls without an ounce of common sense". Furthermore, she was less inclined to help those in need; instead, she would ignore them. After a while, a year or two, when asked for help, she would shoot the person an annoyed look and, in a snappish tone, say that they "shouldn't have got themselves in such a rut like a goddamn idiot". Her foul language, while shocking to hear coming out of the mouth of a 13 year old girl, greatly amused him.

He was probably her closest friend since she arrived at the orphanage. He was rather fond of her spunky nature, her refusal to take anyone's bullshit. In the first few months after her arrival, he found her to be a short-tempered and sardonic kind of person. She was stubborn and headstrong but also quite sensible. Though hardly educated, she had a sharp tongue and quick wit and desired to learn about anything that happened to peak her interest, almost to a point of nosiness. However, she could be quite cold and indifferent towards just about everything, people and occurrences. She didn't trust people very easily and he didn't blame her. Even he didn't trust many people despite having been at the orphanage for nearly eight years.

* * *

However, he remembers once when she asked him a question. It was during the winter. She was sitting by the fogged window, her elbow propped up on the windowsill, her finger tapping against her cheek. Wiping the window with her arm, she squinted, trying to look through it, only to see that the other side was streaked with dirt. She scowled. He glanced at her over his book and smirked. He watched as her eyes narrowed and her brow furrowed. Her chair ground against the floor as she scooted closer to the window, her mouth open slightly, her lips quietly forming a question. Subtly, she turned her head and tucked her hair behind her ear, pointing it towards whatever it was outside. Her eyes darted to him, quietly asking him-then he could hear it, the sounds of horses. He liked to watch her sometimes, which was a bit odd, now that he thinks about it. But he liked the way she moved, the way every action was careful and deliberate, meaningful. Setting aside the book, which he could barely read anyway, he stood up. The clops of horseshoes against the cold dirt slowed to a stop outside as something that sounded like a cart creaked.

"Funeral parlor." He said simply.

Wordlessly, she stood up, walked over to the front door and walked out, the cold wind blowing in, nearly extinguishing the fire in the fireplace. Immediately following her, John quickly closed the door behind him as he put on his hat. She stood on the porch, watching as men unloaded half-frozen bodies, some disfigured beyond recognition, from the cart. There was the faint stench of rotten corpses in the air. Her arms were crossed over her chest, bracing herself against the cold. He shrugged off his worn jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Then he knew something was up. Unlike usual, she didn't throw it back at him.

"Why are there so many this year?" She asked, never taking her eyes off the bodies.

As the years passed, more and more people began to travel westward to get their own piece of frontier when settlements became well-established. They forgot that the West was still untamed, rife with thieves and murderers, liars and cheaters, ailing from disease and greed. Along with improvements came more problems.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he watched as the men carried an entire family down from the cart. "Died chasin' dreams. That's what Miss Heinrich used to say." He answered quietly. Miss Heinrich was a sad character, very depressing to be around. She hung herself a few months after arriving at the orphanage.

He had expected Abigail to call them foolish, to disregard them and walk right back inside.

Instead, she pulled the jacket tighter around her. "What's wrong with having dreams?" She murmured sadly. "We all have dreams, John."

He looked over at her and saw her gazing out at the vast expanse of the desert, watching horses trot in and out of the town, some with a rider, some without.

* * *

One night, John couldn't sleep, strange since he could normally sleep through just about anything. Even the construction of the new railroad tracks didn't bother him, the constant clangs of hammers against steel. He figured it was the heat; his clothes were damp when he awoke. Throwing off his sheets, he stood up. Squinting, he looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 2 in the morning. He sighed. Lying in a hot bed wouldn't do him much good. He threw on some clothes and decided to go outside, just for a while, to cool off.

A rush of cold air met him as he opened the back door. He let out a sigh of relief, feeling refreshed already. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he leaned against the wall. He listened to the howls of wolves and saw the silhouettes of the animals move in the white moonlight. Shrubs rustled as restless animals scurried across the ground. He shut his eyes, slowly drifting to sleep.

"You gonna fall asleep here?"

He jolted awake and looked around, searching for the voice. Then he heard a cluck.

"Over here."

Looking to his right, he saw Abigail sitting on a bench. "You startled me." He said rather crossly.

She laughed. "Looked like it."

He scowled. "What are you doin' out here anyway?"

"Same reason you're out here?" She shrugged.

He grunted, crossing his arms over his chest.

She sighed, pulling up her knees to her chin, the heels of her bare feet on the edge of the bench. Clad only in her night clothes, she seemed hardly fazed by the cold or by the fact that she was hardly decent. Her hair was wilder than the first time he saw her, messy curls that had grown from the waves. In the moonlight, her skin looked white, shaded with pale blue. He could see scars, dark marks that marred her skin.

"Like what you see?"

He raised his head slowly, careful to not seem like he was guilty. "Nope."

She let out a quiet laugh. "The scars, huh?" Her fingers crawled toward the scars. "The other girls say that they make me ugly. Makes them better than me."

He remained silent. He heard her laugh again.

"What do they know?" She scoffed with that quiet smile on her face. "At least God didn't mix my face up with my ass."

He choked back a laugh, quickly smothering it before someone heard.

"What do you think?"

He sniffed, rubbing his nose. "Hm?"

Her fingers traced one of the scars, a long winding scar that ran down her arm like a snake. "About my scars?"

He cast her a sidelong glance, seeing an inkling of shame on her face. She stared forward, refusing to meet his eyes.

Dropping his eyes to the ground, he kicked some dirt around. "How did you get them?"

She scowled. "I asked you a question first, Mr. Marston."

"You ask one too many questions, Miss Abigail." He countered, flashing a smirk. "'Bout time I asked you one."

He hadn't expected her to answer, really.

Setting her feet back on the ground, she leaned forward and sighed. She seemed to contemplating. He wondered if he should interrupt whatever train of thought she was having. "Bandits." She began before he could speak again. "Killed my mother, my father, and my brother. I tried to fight back. They grabbed my hair, threw me on the ground, cut me with their knives, just for their amusement. In the end, I gave up the supplies in exchange for my life."

She said it as if she had said it a thousand times before, as if none of it had hurt her.

"I figure they had their fill and decided it would be alright to spare me. They left."

He nodded. "I see."

She looked up at the sky. "I took my Daddy's gun and shot them in the back."

She sounded proud of herself but still, he wondered if she cried then.

"I'm probably goin' to hell." She said lightheartedly, a small smile on her lips.

He shrugged. "The way I see it, they got what was comin'."

She laughed bitterly. "In the end, God decides." She muttered almost mockingly.

Redemption or damnation. He hoped that she would be forgiven.

"Now, answer my question."

He cocked his head, shoving his hands into his pockets to grab a cigarette and his matchbox. Only an occasional smoker, he smoked when he needed to stall or when he was nervous. It was a little of both this time. He flicked the ash away as he breathed out smoke. "They make you stronger than anyone else."

He imagined her, a little girl, surrounded by the bodies of her family, holding a smoking gun too big and awkward to fit in her hands, watching a pool of blood grow before her with her flickering flame eyes.

"A strong woman." He continued, bringing the cigarette to his lips. "Now that's somethin'. Worth more than the prettiest girl in the world."

She looked out to the desert, her eyes bright and shiny, finally calm like water.

They sat in silence, looking out to the wilderness, and promised that they would become stronger.


	3. Survival

Even now, John values survival. After all, what would be the value of good and bad if you were dead? He learned how to steal, lie and cheat, the art of sweet talk. He learned what things he could and could not get away with. He learned from what he heard, stories of brave vigilantes, ruthless ringleaders and legendary gunslingers. He values it because he wants to live, and the people in the stories, they were survivors. He wanted to survive to know what it would be like to chase the sunset.

He remembers the first time he held a gun – a drunken man decided to humor him a bit and let him hold his gun - and he remembers the feeling clearly. He remembers the cold metal of the revolver, the curve of the hammer against his thumb, the weight of a weapon. For a few moments, he didn't feel so helpless, so powerless against the world. He felt control, the ability to change his future.

And it was a feeling he didn't want to let go of.

* * *

John looked out to the desert, waves of heat tumbling on the horizon. Sitting against the back wall of the orphanage, thoughts ran through his head. The horse always hitched by the saloon. A knapsack of food and a few apples for two weeks. All the clothes he could get without drawing suspicion.

His thoughts were interrupted as the door beside him abruptly opened, followed by the quick steps of -

"You've been acting a bit," she declared with no fanfare, "strange, lately, John."

The dust kicked up by her boots as she came to a stop beside him. He looked up and grinned at her, trying his best to look innocent, which failed. He was 17 years old, almost 18; at that point, any attempt of trying to look innocent immediately aroused suspicion. "Don't know what you're talkin' about, Abigail." By then, they had gotten past formalities, four years after they had met.

Abigail, now 14, raised an eyebrow, her hands on her hips. "You're up to something and I don't like it." She said, not falling for his act one bit.

That was their meeting spot, behind the orphanage. Kids liked to play up front, where they could get lost in the crowd and go explore the town, so the adults had to stay in front as well to look after them. The older kids liked to stay inside or sneak off. But they liked the quiet open space overlooking the desert. The wind twanged the clotheslines, covering the clean laundry with desert dust.

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "Heat's screwin' with your head." He stated matter-of-factly, shrugging. He heard her huff and promptly plop down beside him, her dress flying up before settling around her. Lifting his hat, he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Might be screwin' with mine too."

"You were born with your head screwed." She snorted, whipping out a handkerchief. Patting her forehead with it, she let out a sigh. "So what are you doin' out here?"

"Thinkin', I suppose." He replied curtly.

She merely hummed before falling back against the wall. They were silent for a while, sitting in the sun like old dogs, before either of them spoke.

"So that Ben's been botherin' me lately." She said, annoyance evident in her voice.

He turned to look at her. "What's he been doin'?"

She waved her hand, as if the matter were insignificant. "Y'know, harassin' us girls like usual. Sayin' some ungentlemanly things and whatnot." She let out another sigh, her head rolling to the side lazily. "But he started botherin' me especially when I told him to fuck off."

"Did you tell any of the sisters?"

She shook her head. "Ben told me he'd get me kicked out if I told." She scoffed. "Can't believe they think he deserves any sort of power in this here establishment. He's a lecher, if you ask me."

John and Ben were on neutral terms. However, John held a secret disdain for him; Ben was disrespectful and crude to a point where it wasn't funny. He was bothersome at times and often tried to convince the younger boys to follow his example, to generally be an asshole. Quite frankly, John didn't like being around him so much, but he was close to his age, two years older, and so they just happened to have to be around each other a lot. After hearing this piece of news, however, his disdain grew tenfold.

He brushed the side of his nose and sniffed. "Is that so?"

"But I can deal with him." She said haughtily.

He highly doubted it. After all, in this case, she wouldn't be the one holding the gun.

"You comin' down with a cold?"

"No."

She hummed again. "Guess you're just tryin' to be like those silly men who ride into town like they own the place."

He looked away, embarrassed, as she hid a smile. Sometimes, he tried too hard to be a hero, even when he didn't have to be.

* * *

They stood in the alley between the general store and the doctor's office, smoking as they usually did.

"So I hear you been botherin' the girls." John said, snuffing out his cigarette.

Ben let out a short laugh before he took a long drag. "I wouldn't call it botherin'."

"Whatever you're doin', they don't like it."

He shot a look at John. "Now why would you suspect that?" He threw his cigarette to the ground and leaned forward threateningly, nearly touching the brim of John's hat. "You uh, hear them talkin' about me?"

John didn't back down. "Suppose you could say that."

Leaning back against the wall, he spat on the ground. "That little bitch…" He muttered darkly.

He felt his anger flare. Grabbing Ben by the collar, he pushed him up against the wall. "Listen, you," he growled, "if you try to go on hurt any one of those girls, you're gonna be sorry. You leave them alone, you hear?"

"What the fuck are you talkin'-"

He pushed him harder, his fist against his throat. "You know what I'm talkin' about, friend."

Ben gagged. "Why the hell do you care so goddamn much?" He managed to gasp out. "It's not like you talk much to –"

Realization seemed to dawn on him at that moment and he had the gall to grin. "I knew you had a thing for that Abigail girl."

John dug his fingers into the sides of his throat, drawing out a strangled gasp. "You may have scared her into not tellin', but I'm not scared of a sack of shit like you. I'll tell them and you'll be thrown out." He smirked. "Maybe Sister Alberta will acquaint you with Rosette." Ben's face paled. John let him go, throwing him to the ground. "Or you can just leave them alone. You decide."

Massaging his neck, Ben glared up at him. Saying nothing, he slunk away as John stared at his retreating back.

Men like Ben, he learned, they didn't take those types of confrontations easily.

* * *

That night, a high-pitched scream pierced the silent night. John's eyes shot open and he scrambled to his feet. Adrenaline immediately began pumping throughout his body. Looking around, he saw that the other boys didn't seem to hear. Deciding that he had better things to worry about, he ran out of the room towards the girl's quarters, taking care to make as much noise as he could, starting with the slamming of the door. Sprinting down the hall, he paused momentarily to bang his fist against one of the rooms, which was followed by the clicks of a gun. Skidding to a stop, he grabbed the knob to the room, only to find it locked. He could hear frightened whimpers inside. He swore loudly.

"Do not take the Lord's name in vain, John!" A voice behind him boomed.

Muttering a quick apology, he stepped back. Sister Alberta raised her shotgun and wasted no time in shooting the knob off. More screams were heard from inside. John quickly moved forward and kicked the door open, his heart pounding-

Only to see Ben on the ground, groaning in pain, with Abigail standing over him with a broken lantern.

Relief washed over him. "Jesus Christ, Abigail…"

She dropped the remnants of the lantern with a clatter, dazed and shaking. Taking heavy breaths, she slowly backed away from Ben. John surveyed the room. Books and other trinkets were knocked over, only on one side of the room, closest to where Ben fell. Broken shards of glass from the lantern littered the floor and the faint smell of oil lingered in the room. He saw that one girl's dress was torn. Sister Alberta grabbed Ben by the arm and yanked up him, propping him up against the wall. Sticking Rosette under his chin, she looked him in the eye, sneering at his sorry state. The other kids had woken up and were crowded around the door, watching with sleepy eyes.

"Were you thinking," she muttered dangerously, "of hurting these girls?"

He merely stuttered, blood trickling down his forehead.

"Now," she began, ejecting the shell from her gun and loading the next, "what shall I do with you then?"

He gulped, his legs shaking with fear. She pursed her lips and pulled away.

"I'd rather not have the children see a man killed before their eyes." She sighed, lowering Rosette. "Again, for some of them." Grabbing him by the arm, she walked towards the front door. "I'm turning you over to the sheriff. Perhaps then, you will see the error of your ways and wish I had given you the mercy of dying."

As they walked out together, the smell of urine passed. Looked like Ben really thought he was going to die.

Turning his attention over to Abigail, he saw Miss Judith trying to comfort her. He walked over to them and nodded at Miss Judith.

"I'll take care of her, Miss Judith. Go look after Amelia. She's the one who's needin' the help." He said gently. She stroked Abigail's hair before nodding and going over to the others. He took her place beside Abigail.

He didn't even need to ask her to explain. "I heard someone comin' in." She mumbled groggily, rubbing her eyes. "Then there was screamin' and before I know it, I got a broken lantern in my hands and a cryin' man at my feet."

"How'd you hit him in the dark?"

She shrugged. "Only God knows. Hell, I might've been aimin' at one of the girls to shut 'em up." She let out a tired laugh. "Got lucky, I suppose."

He noticed her hands were shaking. "You did good." He said, patting her on the shoulder. She merely hummed in reply.

Looking up, he saw her staring at Amelia, who was crying, before she turned away. He watched her bite her lip and scrunch her forehead. She clasped her hands together to stop the shaking. He almost thought she was about to cry.

"You alright?" He asked, unsure.

Bowing her head, she rubbed her forehead. "Even here," she sighed wearily, "we're still not safe."

* * *

His thoughts wandered farther after that day. The horse. The food. The clothes. Survival, dreams, freedom, safety.

He would think of Abigail's words.

"What do you think of gettin' out of here?" He said out of the blue on a calm spring day, leaning against the wall at his usual spot outside as Abigail dealt with the laundry.

Abigail patted a bed sheet, beating out the dust, paying little attention to him. "Hm?"

"Y'know," John said, shifting onto his other foot. "out of this town? Going to see the world, that sort of thing."

Abigail paused for a moment, her hand hovering over the laundry hanging from the clotheslines, before she pulled the cloth down. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she cocked her head, looking at John. "You suggestin' something?" She asked, hoisting up the basket of laundry, and carrying it over to a nearby bench.

He shrugged. "Just askin' a question."

Pulling out a bed sheet, she tossed one end to John as she held the other. "Foolish, if you ask me."

"Hey now," he laughed, pulling the ends together, "weren't you the one who was talkin' about dreams?"

They folded it long-ways and shook the creases out. "Never said that we should let them get to our heads." She said in a sing-song voice.

"Ain't that what dreams are?" He asked as he handed her the ends. "People thinkin' up fanciful impossible things but followin' them anyway?"

She paused again, idly finishing folding the bed sheet, apparently seeing his point. He grinned.

"We could get out of here." Without even realizing it, he turned his plan into one that would accommodate the two of them.

She didn't answer, continuing her laundry folding.

Finally, after twenty tense minutes, standing with a basket of neatly folded laundry, she sighed. "Well," she said, sounding somewhat defeated as if this whole thing was some sort of psychological battle, "suppose it's better than joinin' a covenant."

"So would you?" He called. She kicked the door open and stopped, throwing a smile over her shoulder.

"I'm not so cruel as to leave you alone if you were to go out into the world." She called back before grinning. "Besides, God knows you'd be a wreck without me." She laughed as she quickly shut the door, narrowly dodging a balled-up pair of long johns. Poking her head out, she added, "You'll be washin' that again, John!"

He could hear her laughter echo down the halls, loud and happy, like firecrackers. He knew she felt it too, the joy that came with the possibility that she still had a chance to find that life she never knew, the one that she might actually want.

And suddenly, the sunset didn't look so far away anymore.

* * *

Reviews are appreciated. Thanks for reading.


	4. Escape

A/N: Sorry for such a late update. Been busy with school and whatnot so I've been slacking off. This chapter is kind of filler-y but my excuse is that it's a transition from life at the orphanage to eventually life with the gang.

* * *

John sat beside the window, watching the townspeople go about their day. He had developed a habit of watching people and Abigail would always tell him that was strange. But he couldn't really help it. They were dynamic and always changing while he was stuck in the orphanage with no definite future in sight. Truth be told, it annoyed him that his life was so stagnant. It made him anxious and fidgety.

"Quit shaking your leg, John."

He turned and saw Sister Alberta. "Yes, ma'am." He stopped. A minute later, he started again.

She sighed.

"Sister?"

"Yes?"

"What's goin' to happen to me in a couple years?"

She stood beside him, looking out the window as well. "Why are you asking me? That's something only you would know."

He gave her a moody look before turning back to the window. She laughed, clapping him on the back.

"Boy, here's a little piece of knowledge I'll impart to you." She said, removing his hat. He moved to grab it but she held it out of his reach, setting her hand on his head and ruffling his hair.

He looked up at her expectantly. "Yes, ma'am?"

"We've all got something we have to do during our time on this earth, boy." She told him, waving his hat at him. "If there's something you think you need to do, then there is nothing holding you back from doing it but yourself." Setting his hat on his head, she grinned at him. "And whatever it is, you have to find out for yourself."

Adjusting the hat on his head, he nodded thoughtfully as he mulled over her words in his head.

* * *

It's amazing how even the soundest of plans can go awry. John and Abigail learned this firsthand. Their plan to escape was hardly complex; besides, under the cover of night, they could do just about anything without getting caught, as long as the watchdog was taken care of. To do that, they made sure they were properly acquainted with the dog, giving it bones and scraps of meat for days before they planned to leave. They even managed to procure a decently sized steak for it the night of their escape; it deserved the reward, after all, it was the only thing that could have stopped them from leaving.

Sneaking out of the orphanage was easy. Snores easily muffled their footsteps and the creaky floorboards. Each of them carrying a large bundle, they moved along the outskirts of the town, carefully ducking into the shadows as they crossed alleys. The soft footfalls of the dog drew near. Reaching into the bundle, Abigail retrieved the wrapped up steak. "C'mere, boy." She whispered, waving it around. It came around the corner and cheerfully wagged its tail, recognizing them. It happily occupied itself with the free food as they continued along the walls, making their way toward the saloon. They could hear the loud obnoxious laughter of drunk men and the shrill laughter of the women through the walls.

Quickly crossing the dirt road to the mounting post, they loaded their bundles on to the horse. It whinnied, nervous with unfamiliar people handling it, but settled down after being fed an apple.

John hoisted Abigail on to the horse and settled in the saddle. "I think we're good to go."

Pulling the reigns, he led the horse out. It let out a low whinny, its horseshoes clopping loudly against the dirt road. The laughter from the saloon subsided.

"It's 'bout time I turn in." A slightly drunken man announced in the saloon, his words slurred. "Now behave yourselves, you hear? I don't want to wake up in an hour and hear that you dumbasses got yourselves into some kind of trouble."

Laughter and goodbyes followed the man out as he exited the saloon.

John felt Abigail's grip tighten. "Uh, John-"

"Shit." He muttered.

They found themselves face to face with the man whose horse was being stolen right before his eyes.

The man blinked, still trying to comprehend the situation with his impaired brain function and adjusting eyes. Realization dawned on him and his hand flew to his gun at his side. "You -"

They bolted before the man could properly hold the gun in his hand. Unwilling to shoot at his own horse, he shouted for the others and they clambered out of the saloon, some still clutching a bottle. A few were sober enough to mount their horses but thankfully for John and Abigail, none could shoot straight.

As they galloped away on the horse, bullets whizzed past them. He heard Abigail shriek as a bullet ripped through her dress. "Why are they shootin'? They don't shoot to kill for horse theft, right?"

He should have been scared. He should have stopped. But he kept whipping the reigns, digging his heels into the horse, his heart beating hard against his chest.

"You'll get a kick out of this," he shouted over the wind, grinning widely as he remembered seeing the glint of a silver badge, "I think we just stole the marshal's horse!"

* * *

When he thinks back, he hadn't cared that he was leaving the orphanage. Back then, it was just a place he had lived. But now, he wonders what would've happened if he and Abigail had stayed. Maybe they would've have grown up good and honest. Maybe they could have helped the sisters out. But he thinks of Sister Alberta's words and accepts everything he's done, along with any consequences that may come with it.

* * *

Thanks for reading. Reviews are appreciated.


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